Bits and Pieces along the KTR

 4/20/26

What to do, what to do. The days had spilled into each other, a Wednesday no different than a Saturday, all of them busy busy busy. And then it was the weekend and it caught me unawares and there were groceries to buy and laundry to fold; just a whole assortment menial errands that by themselves don't amount to much but, when combined, really destroy a whole day. I had just completed such errands and found myself with only a few hours of daylight remaining. Ahh, what to do, what to do. Lay in bed? Stare at the sun? Play tiddlywinks with the stinkbugs down by the river? Had to do something. But what? And then it hit me: why not drive up the KTR and wander around aimlessly for a bit? Yep. That'll do the trick. And so I grabbed a pack and some water and set off up the KTR, no specific itinerary in mind other than a vague desire to wander around in the woods and climb something awesome. 

Onward and upward, the road curving this way and that, scenic, high desert scenery coming into view. Red rocks, green trees, emerald grass, blue skies, puffy white clouds, windows down, the breeze blowin' through the car, on and on and on. And then I found me a pullout I ain't ever stopped at and pulled over and grabbed the pack and started wandering.

I'd driven by this pullout numerous times on my way to the Wildcat Canyon Trailhead. Always saw people parked there and had always wondered...why. What's out there? What could be so very interesting, so captivating, so alluring that one would pull off the side of the road and wander off-trail to go and see it? I had to find out.

The only thing that came to mind was a large formation called "Jobs Head," a big, crumbly mound of crazy red sandstone rising high above the pines, clearly visible from the road. I decided to wander towards this behemoth, rambling along through the slickrock and sand, the pines silent, the air still. And I entered a creek of sorts and rock-hopped for a bit and then got tired of that and left the creek and bushwhacked a bit and kinda just wandered along, heading in a somewhat straight line to Jobs Head. And there was a group of three having a late lunch (or early dinner) in the shade of some pines and I waved to them and they waved back and then we never saw each other again.

And I started heading up, up, up, climbing through prickly bushes and manzanita, skirting the east side of Jobs Head, trying to find a more agreeable way to reach its summit. And then I found a steep little gully that led to a saddle, the thing full of dead pine needles and an old dead tree and rocks and sticks and shrubs and not a single trace of recent human visitation. And I reached the saddle in a huff and a puff and gazed at the north ridge and said "Oh yeah" and I knew that this was gonna be a good one. 

Proceeding along the North Ridge

I proceeded along, the rock okay for what it was, a little crumbly, but hey—that was expected. And I kept things class 2/3 for a bit, wandering along the ridge, skirting to the west when I could in order to avoid crazy terrain. And then I started climbing up some funky stuff, ducked under a pine, moseyed on over to the east side of the ridge, walked along a fairly exposed class 2 ledge, and then encountered the first major obstacle of the day. 

The first major obstacle

A large chute had to be surmounted, the holds great but the going very very steep. Not wanting to climb up stuff I didn't need to climb, I hugged a wall and moseyed up over a bush and traversed into the chute from there, keeping things class 3. Once in the chute, it was an enjoyable scramble up to a notch, the breeze picking up a bit, the sky a crystal blue, the pines gently swaying down below, the afternoon nice and easy and relaxed. Oh yeah. That's what I'm talkin' about. That's what it's all about.

The second obstacle

At the top of the notch was the second obstacle of the day, perhaps the crux of the route. It wasn't too steep or technically challenging, but the rock quality was exceptionally poor. Lousy lousy nonsense; just a bunch of downward facing, brittle, crumbly, class 3 slabs with a sprinkle of exposure added to the mix. No good. I probably broke off seven pieces on my way up. But at least it was brief and I was soon past it and I wrapped around to the east again, now facing one final obstacle inhibiting my quest to the summit. 

The final obstacle

This was by far the steepest part of the whole trek, definitely class 3/4. But the holds were great and the rock quality was far better than the crumbly nonsense I'd just passed a bit farther down the ridge. Up, up, up and away I went, surpassing this final obstacle, the breeze nice and cool, the afternoon sun hitting everything just right. And I was greeted with a view of a very crumbly false summit so I wrapped around to the west, avoiding all that silliness. And then, finally, ahh yes, there it was—the true summit in all its glory.

Jobs Head summit

And I scurried up there in a jiffy, the rock quality a little horrible in the final stretches (more of those god-awful downward facing, brittle, crumbly sandstone slabs). And I threw down my pack and spun around, the views excellent, the air nice and crisp, everything vibrant and green and bright. And I wandered off the summit a bit to the south and climbed a little nodule and kinda just sat there and let the minutes roll on by, watching the cars zoom up and down the road, watching the clouds slowly drift across the sky, watching life take place, little by little, piece by piece. 

Jobs Head Plateau

Red Butte way out there

Windy Peak

South

And I lingered and lingered and pondered and sat around and then it was time to go and so I began to retrace my steps and a chunk of awful stupid brittle sandstone broke loose and I slid with it for an exhilarating 2 seconds and good thing it wasn't exposed 'cause if it was...oooh boy. And I wrapped around the false summit and moseyed on down that steep section, careful with the footing and whatnot, and then it was a very slow and careful butt-scoot down those terrible, awful, no-good, very bad, horrendous, stupid lousy downward facing sandstone slabs. But I made it just fine and I was back at the notch and I was looking down at the chute and I knew that once I made it past this, it was pretty dang easy walking the whole rest of the way.

Looking down the chute

And I carefully made my way down and from there on out it was a very straightforward jaunt back to the saddle. Not wanting the adventure to end so soon, I decided to check out the northern peak, a tall lookin' protuberance of pine and dirt and shrub and red sandstone rising just in front of me. And I scurried on up the thing, the going super steep but not very scrambly, and I eventually reached the breezy summit in a cough, spit and a burp. And I could see Jobs Head off to the south and I realized that it was by far the more interesting of the two, but hey—ain't nothing like some good ol' wanderin' to ease the mind and quell the spirits. I was satisfied with the detour, satisfied with the view. Ain't nothin' but a thing. And I stood there for a moment or two and soaked in the afternoon and then made my way back to he saddle and down the gully, slippin' and slidin' in the pine needles the whole way down.

Heading back down from the saddle...

Jobs Head

And I took a different route on my return, crashing through bushes and trompin' on slickrock and driftin' and roamin' and wanderin' wherever I pleased. And I'd turn around every now and then and give Jobs Head a salute or two; a show of gratification for being such a wonderful little mountain. And I continued along, found me a use trail, followed it for a bit, encountered more slickrock and sandstone, the pines nice and green, the breeze still kickin', the afternoon growing long, not a care in the world. 

And I made it back to the ol' vehicle at the ol' pullout and the adventure was over and the mystery as to why people visit this spot was still unresolved. They sure ain't going up to Jobs Head, that's for sure. I saw absolutely no sign of any recent human visitation up there. So where are these people going exactly? Who knows. Perhaps it shall remain a mystery until the end of time...

And I got in the car and drove a little ways up the road, my mind still curious, still hungry for aimless wandering. And I found me another pullout and I dropped into a little creek and bushwhacked for a brief minute and then found a nice animal trail breaking through the rocks and sticks and grass. And I followed this trail for a bit, hikin' underneath the shade of the pines, and then I left it at a random spot and scurried on over to Pocket Mesa, climbing up a noticeable class 2 ramp on its northwest side. 

The animal trail

Pocket Mesa

Windy Peak

And the summit of Pocket Mesa was covered in a blanket of manzanita; a noticeable highpoint nowhere to be found. So I wandered around for a bit, hoppin' through the manzanita, moving along, trying to find a view. And I saw some really old footprints in the dirt and I wondered who they belonged to and why their owners would want to climb up to such a weird, unassuming summit and then I thought "well why did I want to climb this weird, unassuming summit" and I couldn't answer my own silly question and I bet the owner of those footprints couldn't either. 

Pocket Mesa summit

And I found an animal trail and followed it for a little bit and took some photos of some pretty pink flowers and saw some views, all of them just alright. Yep. Don't see myself ever coming back to Pocket Mesa. But it fulfilled the urge for wandering and for that I was grateful. I said my goodbyes and made my way back, crossed the road, and then started climbing its next door neighbor: Windy Peak.

Heading up Windy Peak

Looking back at Pocket Mesa

Gotta love an aptly-named peak. 'Twas mighty windy indeed. Walking along, heading up a ridge of sorts, I had to secure my hat so that it wouldn't fly away into the blue infinity of the sky. And the going was steep but it was all rocks and sticks and grass and I took my time and the views started coming in, little by little. And then I saw the summit and it was covered in—you guessed it—a bunch of manzanita. That stuff sure likes to set up shop on the tops of mountains, that's for sure. 

Windy Peak summit

And it was a wee bitty little baby of a bushwhack through this manzanita, all of it waist-high or shorter. And I topped out on the brushy summit, took a photo of the golden benchmark, spun around, and then made for an open spot with tremendous views of the surrounding country. 

Jobs Head, Red Butte, Pine Valley Range

Southwest

Wind, light, clouds, green. Sandstone formations, sandstone mountains, sandstone hoodoos, sandstone canyons, sandstone cliffs. Emerald meadows. Dark forests. Rugged, rugged country, rugged rugged country as far as the eye could see. You'd think I'd be desensitized to it by now. I've been frequenting this area for the better part of two months, seeing the same sights and same views, just from slightly different angles. You'd think I'd get used to it. Accustomed to it. Habituated. Just an ordinary day in the backyard. No, no, no. It ain't like that at all. It's overwhelming. All of it. There's just so much going on. So much to see. So much to do. And the terrain is grand and wild and, like I've said many times before, completely incomprehensible. I never tire of these views. And I likely never will. 

But my eyes get physically tired of looking at 'em and I can't just stay up on a mountain for the rest of my life and so, reluctantly, I have to leave, hike on out of there, return to my vehicle, go back from whence I came. And it was no different on the summit of Windy Peak; I got up, dusted off my pants, and then walked back to the car.

But I still wasn't quite done yet. Still had some daylight, still had some time to grab one more lil' nubbin' before the day came to a close. And I already knew what it was I was gonna do. And I knew it was gonna suck, but, oh well. 

How delightful

What I'm talkin' about of course is the provincial "Goose Creek Knoll," a super short, super brushy little knob that sits just north of the West Rim Trailhead parking lot. And I drove on over there and parked and then immediately began the delightful bushwhack to the summit. Yep. Textbook bushwhack. Reminded me of the ol' Los Padres. Lots of crawlin'. Lots of poky bushes. Lots of dirt. Fun stuff, fun stuff. 

Goose Creek Knoll

And I broke on through and tore a hole in my pants and I emerged on the summit covered in scrapes and dirt and a strong conviction to never visit this spot ever again. Ain't no reason to climb this thing. Unless you love bushwhacking. In that case, have at it. 

North

South

And I probably spent no more than two minutes up there and then used gravity to my advantage and busted my way back, crashing through the brush like an angry bear. And I broke on through and jogged down the road for a bit back to the car, the whole endeavor taking just under 13 minutes but feeling much longer. And I drove on out of there, windows down, dust clouds billowing out the back of the car, the road bumpy, the road smooth, up and down, off to the KTR, the day finally finished, my hunger for wandering finally satiated. 

Got home, took a shower, cooked up some meatloaf, hit the sack. It had been a terrific afternoon; glad I made the effort to get out there and see the sights and whatnot. Jobs Head was by far the best excursion of the day. Definitely see myself going back there someday. As for the rest...they were...ehhh...alright. Not too good, not too bad. 

Pyramid Peak, Eagle Mountain

 04/14/26

Dry lips and sore legs greeted me at dawn, the morning lazy and lethargic. I got up, ate the last of my muffins, and then stepped outside. What a day, what a day. Cool temps, crisp skies, perfect weather. Only the faint odor of damp earth reminded me of the previous day's hectic thunderstorms, the memory of them ephemeral, slowly evaporating from my mind. 

And I walked around, woke up the ol' legs, drank some water, took a wee. Pyramid Peak loomed in the distance, and, truth be told, I didn't really want to climb it. Legs hadn't fully recovered from yesterday's antics on Telescope Peak and such. But I couldn't let this beautiful weather go to waste. Plus the peak looked interesting and I'm a big fan of all things interesting so I figured, ehh, might as well give it a looksie. And so I packed up my stuff, started the car, drove out of "The Pads" and down the road for about 1 minute before pulling off and starting a long walk through open desert towards the base of this most interesting mountain. 

Pyramid Peak

Alright, I'll be honest. This peak didn't look interesting at all. I'll admit that. Just told myself it was interesting as an excuse to climb it. The thing looked utterly gigantic, a massive conglomeration of red, white, brown and black, of jagged ridges and deep ravines, its massive bulk rising out of the open desert like something out of a bad dream. And I walked on through the desert, the dirt crunching underneath, the skies clear, the temps more than agreeable. Yellow and white and purple remnants of the superbloom could be seen all around, the tiny little flowers painting this otherwise hostile landscape in a delicate fashion, softening the harshness, elevating the terrain into something quite beautiful. And I walked along through the open desert, the morning nice and cool, Pyramid Peak growing closer and closer, growing more and more massive with each passing step. Ahh yes. This was gonna suck. 

Through the desert, the flowers, the creosote and cactus, though dirt and rocks and pokey shrubs and in and out of a wash I continued on, entering a wide canyon and turning left in order to gain access to my chosen saddle. I passed an old metal barrel of unknown origin. Passed a mean lookin' wasp. And then I was at the base of the climb to the saddle and the scenic walk through the desert had finally come to an end and now it was time for up, up, up. And I saw the first sign of human activity in the form of a cairn and ahh yes, another cairn and hey, wouldn't you know it, a nice use trail snaking its way up to the saddle. Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as I thought. I changed gears, my mind now solely fixated on the effort of the slog, and slowly began the steep ascent to the saddle.

Heading to the base of the saddle

Hiking up to the saddle

And the trail was good and the trail was bad and there was a cairn here and there and it was obvious where to go. Just had to go up. Up is where you have to go. You'll get there eventually. And wouldn't you know it, I, yes, ME got there eventually and I was drenched in sweat and was regretting my decision to hike in sweatpants but how could I be mad—they were simply doing their job. So I rolled them up to my thigh and that seemed to do the trick, and I took a quick swig and looked at the remaining climb. Still had a long way to go. So much vert, so much vert. Doubt creeped into my mind, but I thought ehh, I'll just slow down. And that's what I did, simply inhaled the fresh desert air and took it easy, one simple little step at a time. 

Pyramid Peak from the saddle

So much vert...

Looking back 

And those simple little steps really payed off; I was making good progress, expansive desert views stretching all around me. The use trail helped me get through some interesting sections, keeping things nice and straightforward. Sometimes it would disappear, but, like the climb to the saddle, it was very obvious where to proceed. Up and up and up, that was the name of the game. Up dirt and rocks, big rocks, little rocks, rocks that broke apart, rocks that looked mean and sharp, rocks so fine and crumbly they made me perform the ritual one-step-forward-two-steps-back dance, again and again, up through shale and looseness, up hard-packed dirt and solid awesomeness. Up. Up. Up. Yep. That's all there was to it. 

Eventually, I reached the top of a particularly long and steep section, two cairns on one side and the other marking an invisible doorway to another domain. And I passed through the cairns and entered a land of black rock, the summit still a long way off. And I climbed up to the top of another steep section, following the use trail as is weaved its way through the black rocks, eventually topping out and gifting me with a view of an extremely rugged ridge.  

The land of black rocks

A rugged ridge

And this is where things got interesting. Real interesting. Had to go down for a change. Who woulda thought? Satisfied with the momentary change of pace, I followed the use trail as it dropped down and skirted the side of the crazy looking ridge. A more adventurous soul coulda proceeded directly through the ridge without losing much vert, but as for me, the coward, I kept things nice and easy. 

Moseying along, the use trail finally started heading up again, weaving in and around some class 2 stuff, the land of black rocks transitioning to a land of quartz. Peculiar rock formations rested here and there, carved through the eons by wind and rain. Bright quartz, shiny rocks, rugged formations—almost felt like I was walking through the ancient remnants of a grand crystal cathedral. The breeze picked up, whisking away the droplets from my salty face. I looked around at the brilliant scene. Ahh yes. The summit was close. Just a few minutes to go. Tick tock, tick tock and violà—I was there.

Looking back at the ridge

Telescope Peak in the distance

A peculiar rock formation

Pyramid Peak summit

The views were quite similar to what I'd already seen on the way up, although now I could see pretty much everything north and west, including the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. How pretty, how nice. There was Mt. Whitney in all its glory, snowy and cold and distant. And there was Lone Pine Peak and Mt. Williamson and, could it be, Olancha Peak, standing there way off and away from everybody, tall and lonely and wistful. And the desert stretched out before me, little patches of yellow here and there, the sky a blue jewel, Telescope Peak and Co. still covered in snow from yesterday's storm, Charleston Peak covered with a dusting of its own, rising out of the desert to the east. And everything was nice and cool, the country nice and quiet, everything rugged and crazy and weird, mountain ranges visible in all directions, their summits mysterious and captivating. So I sat on down and enjoyed the fruits of my labor, marveling at the radiant elegance of springtime in the desert. 

North

Southeast

Southwest

Northwest

A blurry Mt. Whitney and Co.

I examined the register, that, like those on Wildrose and Telescope, came in the form of a fancy green book. Placed in 2012, the thing had several entries, the most recent from just 3 days prior. There was also a smaller register that had been placed by the Sierra Club; this too had entries going back to 2012 but for whatever reason nobody had signed it after 2022. Seems like the book is the more popular of the two. I made my marks, closed up the book, took one last 360° sweep of the land, and then began what I knew would be a complete knee-killing descent. 

Heading down...

Down, down, down, retracing my steps, following the ol' use trail, walking through the land of quartz, skirting the crazy ridge, climbing up to the land of black rocks, down, down down. 'Twas a lot easier on the lungs going down, but my oh man were my legs sore. They eventually found a groove, a sort of perpetual squat and wobble, dancing up and down the loose rock and dirt like a cat trying to do ballet. And I boot-skied down the loose sections and slowed down on the tricky sections, occasionally using my hands for balance. The weather kept getting better and better, the sky more and more clear, the temps absolutely perfect, the springtime desert terrain a delight for the eyes. I took my time, heading down the mountain at a leisurely pace, enjoying the light and the sky and the little purple and pink flowers blooming on the cacti. 

Back to desert walkin'

And I made it to the saddle and hiked off the thing down into the desert, finally off the mountain, finally back to pleasant desert walking. By now the sun was reaching its zenith and everything was bright and brilliant and wonderful, springtime sunshine bathing everything in the best lighting imaginable. Everything seemed so fresh, so clean. And I walked along, out of the mountains, out into the wide, flat expanse of desert, walking in a straight line to the tiny speck of my parked vehicle. And there were lizards and bugs and creepy-crawlies out doing creepy-crawly things. And then there was a jackrabbit and it saw me and darted off into the bushes, never to be seen again. The desert was wide awake, popping with life, with energy. Too bad I couldn't use any of that energy. By the time I got back to my car my legs were quite dead. 

Tiny white flowers

An old bottle

I changed into shorts, sat in the car, munched on the last of the meat sticks and crackers. I was almost out of food; just had one freeze-dried meal left. The smart thing to do would've been to call it a day and drive on out of there, maybe stop in Pahrump for lunch or something. My legs were dead, my hips sore, but my spirits had never been so high. I needed more, needed something nice and quick, something awesome and inspiring, a crowning touch to finish what was turning out to be one of (if not the best) weekend trips of my life. And I knew exactly what this something would be. I'd seen it that morning. Saw it from the summit of Pyramid Peak. Saw it on the way down, saw it while walking through the desert, saw it rising up out of the flatland, a lonely, isolated, jagged-looking island in the sky. Eagle Mountain. Yep. It was happening. 

Eagle Mountain

Water in the desert

I drove off to Death Valley Junction and turned right, windows down, heading along State Route 127 to some random dirt road that marked the start of the climb to Eagle Mountain. Bumping along, I saw an old white truck parked on the road. Now who could that be? Who in their right mind would be way out here in the middle of nowhere on a random Tuesday afternoon? Another mountain climber perhaps? Only one way to find out. I got out, grabbed my poles, and started walking.

The steep west chutes of Eagle Mountain

Going up...

I'd read very little about Eagle Mountain. Just knew it was nice and short and that I had to stay on route, follow the cairns, stuff like that. Going off route meant encountering some cliffy terrain. And me no likey no cliffy terrain. And so, walking through the desert, I gazed at the steep west face of Eagle Mountain, trying to discern what the correct route actually was. As I got closer a cairn popped up, and then another. Seemed like they wanted me to hike up the left chute. So that's what I did.

Holy guacamole, that thing was steep. But the rock was excellent; nice, sharp, grippy limestone as far as the eye could see. Quite the change of pace from my time sloggin' it up that blasted white sandstone in Zion. This stuff was gourmet. I was lovin' it. 

And I hiked up and up, the going no harder than class 2, maybe a little easy class 3 sprinkled here and there just to keep things interesting. And I found that I didn't really need poles and kinda just lugged them along for the ride but hey, at least I wasn't wearing sweatpants anymore. That was a plus. A nice cold breeze on the ol' legs was more than enough to egg them on, and, though completely tired, they carried me up the west face to a crazy saddle near the summit. 

A view from the crazy saddle

Following a use trail to the summit

A final, exciting class 3 obstacle

From there on out it was pretty straightforward: a lovely, well-worn use trail took me the rest of the way to the final climb to the summit. It skirted to the west, the surrounding views absolutely astounding. Cliffs to my left, wide open desert to my right. Yessir. Doesn't get much better than that.

And the trail wrapped around a corner and I followed it straight to final climb: an exciting class 3 scramble up good rock with solid holds. A lone trekking pole was sticking out of the ground at the base of the climb. This must belong to the owner of the truck I'd seen wayyy down at the bottom. Which meant that they were probably hangin' out at the summit. I'd have to say hello. I tightened my shoes, secured my poles, and then began the exhilarating final scramble to the summit. 

There was an old man up there. Dressed in a bright orange sun hoody and tan colored pants with sunscreen on his face and sporting a big ol' beard and dark sunglasses, this guy seemed to know what he was doing. And we greeted each other and shared some time on the summit, exchanging stories, talking about life and mountains and stuff like that. Learned that he'd climbed this mountain at least 50 times. Learned that he'd climbed most of the peaks in the Sierra. Learned that he knew and had hiked with all these renowned local peakbaggers and climbers. And the more we talked the more I realized that I was talking to a genuine legend, a guy who knew these mountains and this desert better than most people on this planet. It ain't everyday that you meet a legend. Especially in the middle of nowhere on top of a mountain on a random Tuesday afternoon. 

The legend

And we talked for quite a while, time passing slowly, the colors shifting, changing, the breeze growing lighter and lighter. And then we said our goodbyes and he told me he'd see me on the way down and I said something profound like, "Ok" and then he set off, climbing down the class 3 section like someone half his age. And I sat down and checked out the register, inside which were two booklets. The older of the two was placed in 1981, and I saw the legend's name in there more than a dozen times. The newer one was placed in 2000, with the most recent entry (other than the legend's) from 9 days prior. And I made my marks and stood up and looked around, enjoying the airy summit one last time before heading back down. Wide open spaces, patches of yellow, salty white swaths of nothingness, towering mountain ranges, Telescope Peak to the west, Charleston Peak to the East, vast, immense, marvelous desert in all directions. Yep. This was a good one. Short, steep, exciting, scrambly, good rock, good views. If there's any mountain to climb 50 times, this is it. Standing there in the sun and the breeze, I knew, someday, I'd be back. 

South(ish)

East

North

West

And then I grabbed my pack and began the quick descent back to the car. My legs had gone through all five stages of grief by this point and were running on pure emotion. I retraced my steps, carefully climbing down the class 3 section, pausing once or twice to observe the insane views just one more time. And then it was back on the trail, back to the saddle, down, down, down, things wrapping up, the day in diminuendo, the symphony coming to an end, slowly, slowly, nice and quiet and peaceful.

Looking back at the summit

Looking down the class 3 section

Back on the trail...

Heading back to the saddle...

And I caught up to the legend and he wished me well and we parted ways, most likely to never cross paths ever again. And I took a different way on the descent, managing to keep things class 2 or under the whole rest of the way, keeping an eye out for cairns and such, careful not to end up in some class 5 terrain. A moment here and a moment there and soon I was back to the flatlands, back to the pretty desert, out of the steep stuff, back to good, clean, fairly level walking. And I walked on back to the car and started 'er up and drove on out of there, the day finished, the symphony complete, every goal met, nothing on my mind but a strong sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. What a day, what a day...

Heading back down the west side

And I drove on through Pahrump and into the outskirts of Vegas and I stopped at a restaurant and got me a big ol' burger and salty fries and they coulda been endless but that's ok, I made the mistake, I'll simply have to go back. And I got on the 15 and took it all the way back to Utah, driving into the night, gettin' home nice and late. And that was it. Wow, what a weekend. That's all there is to say. Drained me through physically, that's for sure. I was sore for days afterwards. But mentally—wow, what a weekend. Can't come up with the words to describe it.